The Babysitting Chronicles
by The Madman From The Bronx
Summary: Bryndis, a sixteen-year-old introvert, needs money to buy a car. She answers a babysitting ad in the newspaper and faces the ultimate challenge of her teenage years: handling Stewie Griffin. Is she up to it? Read and review the first chapter!


I rubbed my eyes and stared at the newspaper. There were only three things to do in Quahog: get a job, get a life, and get a coffin. Sixteen and ever eager for a car, I had my eyes set on the first step before vacationing in Newport. Completely desperate, I wanted a job for which a third of my money didn't have to go to the stinkin' government. Therefore, I turned to babysitting. Who cared if I hated babies? All I needed to do was find some baby, a remote, and good episode of Teletubbies.

Or so I thought.

One of the ads in the newspaper caught my eye: GRIFFIN FAMILY, BABYSITTER NEEDED. BABY, STEWIE, LIKES TO DANCE AND SING. HE IS TEMPERMENTAL AND CAN'T BE LEFT ALONE FOR A MOMENT.

This same ad had been in the paper for the past couple weeks, albeit without the "song-and-dance" part of it. If this kid liked to dance and sing, he wasn't all bad. At six in the morning, I slipped on my green crocks a size too large, threw on my James Dean-fashioned red windbreaker, and folded the newspaper back so I could see the address. The walk was long and lonely on a bitter winter's day, and I talked to myself as I always did in times of social crisis. I marched up on the porch and rang the doorbell. A young woman with striking red hair answered. "Yea?" She asked in a Jersey accent.

"I'm here in response to the ad you placed in the paper about babysitting? My name is Bryndis."

"Oh, thank God!" She exclaimed. "You're the only one to answer this ad since January!"

"The singing and dancing part of it got me interested." I admitted. "I'm a bit of a big band fan myself."

"Oh, Brian put that in." The redhead rolled her eyes. "Please come in. I'm Mrs. Griffin. Uh... interesting shoes," she stuttered, looking down, clearly at a loss for words.

"My tennis shoes are in the wash." I said. "It's not like they're any good-- they have holes in them."

"Can't you afford a new pair?" Mrs. Griffin asked, closing the door behind me. "Oh, you poor girl. I'd like you to meet Stewie."

"Who's this, Lois?" A voice boomed from the top of the stairs. "Did a homeless person just walk in our house?"

"Peter!" Mrs. Griffin barked.

"It's okay. I'm used to people telling me that I look like Harpo Marx." Well, my first lie of millions: nobody nowadays knew who Harpo was.

"Who's Harpo Marx?" The fat guy at the top of the stairs said. "You've got two seconds to explain or you're out of this house."

I bristled. I didn't answer to fat asses who didn't know who Harpo Marx was.

"That's it. You're out. No mutant is staying in my house."

"That's 'mute,' Peter, and she can talk." Mrs. Griffin chastised. "This is my husband, Peter." She said, turning back to me.

"Hi. My name is Bryndis. I'm here to answer the babysitting ad you placed in the paper."

"That was Lois, not me. I still think Stewie can take care of himself."

"Would you like to meet our son?" Mrs. Griffin beamed.

"Y...ye...yaCCHOOO!!!!" A huge booger flew out of my nose like a spaceship leaving Earth's orbit. Horrified, I watched it soar three feet in the air before it landed on the carpet.

"Yay!" Mr. Griffin clapped his hands. "She's funny! YaAAAAY."

"I... uh... I'm extremely sorry. It's this cold I have." Crawling on my hands and knees on the carpet, I picked up the booger. "Uh... do you have a sink anywhere so I can wash my hands?"

"Yes. The kitchen's right ahead." Lois replied, taken-aback.

Utterly humiliated, I stumbled into the kitchen, squeezed out some dish detergent (no longer courageous enough to ask for soap), and turned on the faucet.

Seeing the water run tranquilly was the last thing I remember before little black dots invaded my head and gradually turned into a blank slate. "Stewie, you naughty boy!" was the last thing I heard.

My eyes fluttered open minutes later to find Mr. and Mrs. Griffin (holding what I assumed to be her baby) and three strangers standing above me. Mr. Griffin was the first and only one to speak.

"If you know the words to 'Surfin' Bird,' you're hired."

"What? You got a fat, lazy woman to babysit me?" The baby squawked from above. From the moment I set eyes on him I hated him. I hated the way he stared down at me as an inferior. I hated his mock-British accent. I hated the teddy bear, proclaiming him to be a mere baby saying these hurtful things, the way he won against me, humiliated me, and jeered at me now. What baby could do that? There was some sense of determination that welled up inside of me when I stared at this face, something giving me the ability to sing a song I had never sung in my life. Maybe Mr. Griffin's flapping his arms to the rhythm helped me through it, because I sure as hell know it wasn't God – not in my life, anyway. I would have the last laugh. Yes, I would have the last laugh.


End file.
